by Various
"Y'know, this is a great meal Norma but there's something different about the turkey. It taste's different somehow."
"Does it?" She acted surprised. "I prepared it the same way I have every other year."
"Daddy's right," Karen said. "There is something different about it."
"Oh you're right," Norma smiled widely. "I did just add one new thing to it. Retribution."
As the words filtered through them they froze, forks dropping out of their hands. Norma watched as her family was overwhelmed by coughing fits, that shifted into gagging, gagging so severe she could see their faces turning red.
Norma ate her dinner calmly as they vomited on the table. Henry fell out of his seat and began to crawl across the floor, blue fluid trickling out of the corners of his mouth.
Karen held her throat as she reached for the water in front of her but instead knocked it across the table in her panic. Norma watched the water soak the table like a flood but was oblivious to it.
Steve gasped and choked, falling face first into his plate and lying still.
Henry made it to the kitchen door before vomiting one last time and then going still as well.
Slumping back in her seat, head bobbing, Karen let out one solitary cry: "Momma, why?" It was all that escaped her before she died.
Norma quietly finished her dinner.
The turkey carcass, nothing but skin and bones now, shuddered a bit, its platter vibrating until two shadowy, wispy forms slipped out of it and into the air. Norma looked up to see two tiny black creatures hovering above her. They were black as pitch, their bald heads sporting blunt horns, their eyes blood red, their clawed hands and feet webbed.
Floating on bat wings they cackled to each other, giggling and laughing maniacally, their pointed tails curling like pigs' tails. "Another has been damned," one cackled to the other.
"Stupid, weak-willed humans," the other giggled. "They make it too easy."
"The Father will be very pleased," they said lastly as they vanished into the air as if never there.
As if coming out of a dream state, Norma blinked and screamed, staring at the bodies of her family. "What have I done!"
Stumbling out of her chair she fell to the floor and cried. She looked up again and saw the turkey remains sitting on the table. There were no more whispers.
Norma always knew that there were bad things in the world, dark, frightening things. She knew of evil but no one ever warned her that turkeys could be possessed.
JOHN GROVER
is a thirty-two year old writer residing Massachusetts of the United States. He's been writing since he was 18 and has taken a creative writing course at Fisher College in Massachusetts.
His credits include over 60 tales both in print and online in such markets as "Rogue Worlds, Dark Dungeon, Horrorfind.com, Blood Moon Rising, Thirteen Stories, Eternal Night Ezine, Shadowkeep, Abstracts magazine, Alternate Realities, Art of Horror and many more.
He also has been recently accepted into the upcoming Anthologies Of Flesh and Hunger, Vicious Shivers, The Fear Within and Scriptures of the Damned.
He is the co-author of Space Stations and Graveyards published by Double Dragon Publishing and Poisoned Graves soon to be released by DDP.
His story "Black Out" was recently made into a 4-minute short film by a group of Canadian Film students. "Black Out" can be found on the website "Short Scary Tales."
He is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Visit his website at www.shadowtales.com.
EASTER HORROR TALE
Christian countries celebrate the springtime holiday of Easter to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The period of Lent leads up to Holy Week, which starts with Palm Sunday-the day Jesus entered Jerusalem and crowds reverentially laid palms at his feet. The Last Supper is remembered on Maundy (Holy) Thursday, followed four days later by Easter itself. For Christians this is the most holy of days.
However, the many traditional customs surrounding Easter have "pagan" origins. The very name alone is derived from the names of two pre Judeo-Christian goddesses. According to the English scholar St. Bede, who lived in the 6th century, the Teutonic Eastre (as known as Ostern) and Scandinavian Ostra were fertility goddesses who were celebrated at the onset of spring.
Both rabbits and eggs-long-standing signs of fertility-are also associated with Easter. The rabbits are typically used as marketing ploys or are giving to children as pets. These pets are soon neglected and either given away or killed. As for the eggs, every Christian culture has a different custom. In Greece eggs are dyed crimson to signify the blood of Christ, whereas Slavic peoples use gold and silver to decorate eggs. In omnivorous cultures the contents of the eggs are drained through a small hole and used for cooking. The remaining hollow shells make excellent ornaments are are hung from trees during Easter week. Easter eggs are also used in various children's games, including Easter egg hunts and the Easter egg rolls.
In Europe many refer to the holiday as Pasch, which is derived from Pesach (the Jewish holiday Passover). Most early Christians had been raised as Jews and merely considered Easter a new addition to Passover. Those Christians still residing in, or close to, the Middle East frequently hold Easter according to the Passover festival. The Western churches don't adhere to historical elements, instead opting to observe Easter on the Sunday after the full moon on/after the spring equinox, which occurs March 21. Therefore Easter can occur anywhere between March 22 and April 25.
-John Edward Lawson
Forsaken
By Jason Brannon
When I finally crawled beneath the covers, Jessica was already dozing peacefully. It was the general order of things around our house. Because of my insomnia, I needed the rhythm of her breathing to help me get to sleep, and Jessica was usually more than willing to turn in first. I'm sure I could have gone to sleep much sooner each evening if it weren't for the eyes of the enormous ceramic Christ staring down at me from his illuminated cross, judging me for each and every sin I had ever committed. But the hideous thing had belonged to Jessica's grandmother who had passed away only a few months earlier. Which meant I was stuck sleeping under Christ's watchful eyes.
On that Good Friday, however, I didn't even pay the hideous fluorescent god much attention. I was too busy thinking about Easter. The day of resurrection was coming up in two days, but the Christian significance was lost on me. All I could think about was getting dressed up, going to church, and having to endure a painful afternoon of being dissected like a med school cadaver by Jessica's parents. I was already dreading it. Fortunately, the dread soon turned into drowsiness.
As I slept, I imagined that I heard the noisy clanging of a massive sledge being used to drive railroad spikes into unyielding steel. Once, I even thought I heard the wielder of the large hammer strike his hand and scream out in pain, but I didn't stir from the noise. Instead, I simply tried to dream of something else, like a silent bedroom. Almost instantly, the clanging stopped and I dropped off further into that nocturnal abyss.
Sometime later during the night, I remember kicking the covers off of my legs, sweating desperately in the heat. The ceiling fan spun erratically overhead like the rotor of an out-of-control ship, but it didn't seem to help much. Maybe the night was just too humid for comfort, or maybe it was the Lord's penetrating stare making me nervous in the dark. With the gaudy ceramic crucifix hanging over my head like a cheap neon sign outside a Las Vegas hotel, I listened for the metronomic pulse of Jessica's breathing to lull me back to sleep. Yet where there should have been inhalations and exhalations, there was only the whir of the overhead fan and the perpetual hum of electricity running through the Messiah like an unspoken litany.
"Jessica," I mumbled. But she didn't answer. Her side of the bed was empty.
I listened for the flush of a toilet or the sound of water draining from a tap. I think I may have even dozed off again while listening. But Jessica didn't return.
Needless to say, I was slightly bothered by Jes
sica's disappearance, but only because I was unable to go to sleep without her. More than likely, she had just gotten up to get a drink of water. It was at that very time, while dreaming of a cool drink on such a hot night, that I felt something moist splatter on my forehead. Still not entirely awake, I wiped the wetness from my brow with the back of my hand, realizing by the sticky touch of the stuff that it wasn't water. Another drop hit me in the face, splattering on my cheeks. Immediately, I opened my eyes and sat up in bed.
The ceramic cross was empty. A sign still hung above the dogwood crucifix.
"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" it read.
Thinking detachedly to myself in the way that people do when they're still dreaming of sleep, I staggered to my feet and hit the light switch. Frozen to the spot by shock and fear, I couldn't help but notice that the plaster Christ hadn't taken the crucifixion spikes with him as I had previously thought. Instead, he had used them to tack my wife to the ceiling like a frail, torn butterfly in an insect collection. Hers was the flood that pattered on my forehead like the blood of martyred saints. And what was more, her arms were outstretched in a crucifixion pose. I suddenly realized that the hammering and screaming hadn't been a dream after all.
"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" the bloody message above her head read cryptically.
"My God, my God," I translated, "why hast thou forsaken me?" I felt like asking the same question of the Creator.
Bloody footprints ran from the edge of the bed all the way to the open front door, marking the path that the assassin had taken. I thought about giving chase, and then decided against it. I still had Jessica's body to tend to.
As fate would have it, I didn't have to do anything once I returned to the bedroom. Jessica's weight had been too much for the small nails, and her flesh had torn under the strain like cheap tissue paper. There she was, lying on the bed, her blank eyes staring up at unseen heaven, her silent mouth voicing the very words that the ceramic Christ had written in his rage: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?"
Knowing I would have to make this believable for the police, I began breaking windows, smashing vases, destroying whatever I could find in an attempt to make it look like robbery. After I had obliterated the china in the kitchen and strewn the entire contents of the refrigerator across the shiny linoleum, I took one of the knives from our cutlery drawer and began slashing myself. Above all else, I had to make it look like someone else besides the Christ had been in the house. After all, who in their right mind would have believed that a three-foot tall ceramic Messiah in a fit of rage would have been the culprit?
The police, as could be expected, were immediately suspicious. However, they didn't have any real reason to suspect me in the murder of my wife. The self-inflicted cuts and gashes helped convince them that someone else was responsible. Still, I knew they would be watching me.
Once I finished making my statement and answering the detective's questions, I knew that I had to find the crucified Nazarene who had murdered my wife in cold blood. After all, if every man on the face of the earth was going to be judged for his sins, I couldn't understand why this plaster messiah should be any different. The only problem with this vigilante scheme of mine was the fact that I had absolutely no idea where to begin looking.
I scoured the streets, looking for anything strange, listening for screaming, hoping to hear tragedy manifest itself as a cry for help. But the city was quiet. I went home feeling dejected and miserable. It didn't help that Jessica wasn't there waiting on me. Despite the name, it certainly hadn't been a Good Friday for me.
I didn't even try to sleep any more. I knew somehow that the significance of the upcoming holiday had something to do with what had happened and I immediately began reading everything I could find about Easter and the crucifixion. As it turned out, I knew just about all there was to know. Jesus was crucified on Good Friday and rose three days later. Easter is the holiday that recognizes Christ's resurrection from the dead.
I thought about this and wondered why a ceramic replica of the savior would tear himself down from his cross and murder my wife. Maybe this Nazarene didn't want to die for the sins of the world. Maybe this one had a more selfish motive.
Fortunately, I happened upon a story outlining the murder of a young priest named Father Daniel in the morning paper. Although the report didn't say as much, there was mention of a cryptic message being left at the scene of the crime. I couldn't help but think that there was a connection and realized that this might be the starting point I had been looking for.
Although I knew it was a risk, I snuck under the police tape at St. Peter's. To my horror, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani," had been smeared in blood on the old oak lectern at the head of the church. Yet, instead of reassuring me that I was on the right track, the message was a foreboding omen that revealed the lengths this plaster Christ would go to in order to be heard.
I called a friend of mine, Philip, who is a reporter at the local newspaper to inquire about Father Daniel's murder. I hated to lie to my journalist buddy, but I did anyway, telling him that the priest and I had become good friends since moving to the city. Begrudgingly and only because he knew me, Phil gave me a few sketchy details about the estimated time of death, the known suspects, and police leads. But he knew that I was after more than that, and after badgering him over the phone for five minutes, he eventually told me the way that Father Daniel had been killed. Personally, after everything I had seen and experienced, I would have guessed crucifixion as the method of death, but Philip said differently. Apparently each and every bone in the young priest's body had been shattered like glass. He had been beaten to death with a hammer.
(This is my body which is broken for you. Do this is remembrance of me.)
As it stood now, nothing save for a word from God Himself would stop the renegade savior.
When the next priest was found in the early hours of the evening by a vagrant who had stumbled into the open church in search of some air conditioning, there was more than the standard, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" This time, it took a police scanner and a little sneaking around to hear about the message. In addition to the ceramic savior's latest entreaties to God, there was also a scripture reference from the book of Luke. I immediately recognized it as a story I had heard when my grandmother used to take me to Sunday School. It was the parable of the lost sheep.
"What man of you," Jesus spoke from the scriptures, "having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost."
It was at that moment that I felt I truly understood the statue's motivations. Not only was it angry because it believed that God had forsaken it there on that ceramic cross but also because it felt like the Master should have been out looking for it. That led to the motivations for the killings. If God wasn't going to search for his wayward son, then it was going to spill enough of His servants' blood to draw some attention. After all, that was how they did things in the Old Testament, slashing the throat of a lamb to garner the notice of the Almighty.
As it turned out in the case of Father Steven, the ceramic Christ had attempted his first miracle. The basins in the church where the holy water was kept had been filled with wine in some symbolic bid to turn the former into the latter. In an even worse turn, the empty glass bottle had then been smashed and the broken end used to slash the aging priest's throat. Yet, the miracles had stopped at turning water into wine. Unlike Lazarus, there would be no resurrection for Father Steven.
In my mind I kept thinking that the only way this mess would end would be with a message from God. And then it hit me. Although it seemed like a sketchy plan at best, I suddenly thought I knew of a way to lure the confused messiah out into the open and stop the killings for good.
To anyone who read it, the flier would seem vague and mysterious at best. But the message wasn't just meant for anyone. For the sake of the remaining priests in the city, I only hoped the plaster Christ would see it and recognize what it meant. Undoubtedly, it was a lot of trouble to go around to every church, temple, and synagogue in the city, posting fliers in conspicuous places. Yet, I was betting that the effort would pay off. Today, after all, was Easter. The replica would be sure to be out and about, if for no other reason than to show he was very much alive and well.
"And lo," the flier read, "I am with you always, even unto the end of the age." It was signed Jehovah. My address was listed at the bottom.
When I finally made it home, it was a few hours before Easter sunrise. The sky was still dark with only a hint of stars, and the moon was pale and milky like a death omen. I knew, given the messiah's penchant for church killings, that it would see the flier I had posted and be here before daylight. That was why I had to hurry up and get ready. It seemed foolhardy, I know, but I made certain that all doors and windows were unlocked and left ajar an inch or so to provide for easy access. After all, the prodigal son was about to return home, despite his crimes, and I had to make certain that his welcome was a warm one.
As I waited, the only weapon that felt comfortable in my hands was the carpenter's hammer that I sometimes used for odd jobs around the house. And as I thought about the origins of the killer that was even now approaching my house from the west, I couldn't help but think that my choice of defense was somewhat ironic. Not only had Jesus grown up with a father who was particularly handy with a hammer, but the Roman soldiers had used a hammer to nail him to the cross. Of the two, I pictured myself more as a Centurion, bent on putting this murderer back where he belonged. And for a little while that seemed to help my state of mind. But only until I heard the sound of something shattering in the silent night.
Gripping the hammer tightly in my hand, I ran toward the source of the noise. It sounded like it had come from the living room. Once there, I saw that the lamp had been overturned, shattering hard against the ceramic tile.
